Myth and Legend: A Story of William the Red
Walter Floren was a hard man. He wore the leathery skin of a sailor, as his father had and his father's father before him. Tonight, Walter sat hunched at the small table, his thick, scarred hands folded. Hands that had tied thousands of knots, pulled miles of rope, and hauled tons of cargo. He had seen things that would pale weaker men: merciless storms, waves that swelled and threatened to splinter the decks. He'd seen men cast overboard and swallowed by the waters as if they had never existed at all. Once he witnessed a deckhand fall from the rigging and split his skull, crying for his mother as he died. He'd seen all these things, but persevered because it was what he was meant to do. It was in his blood. But in the silence of this room, for only the second time in his life, he was truly afraid. With him in the room were two officers. The younger one was in charge. He sat across the table from Walter, with a crisp sheet of parchment bearing the seal of the Calanian Parliament. The young man, lean and barely into his twenties, wore polished boots and a blue velvet coat. The older man, who followed his master like a shadow, was tall and broad and wore the ceremonial armor of the Parliamentary guard. He had entered the tavern bearing a decorated halberd, but had since rested the weapon against the wall and stood with his arms folded across his chest. Not so casually, Walter noticed, as to keep his right hand from resting on the sword at his hip. The younger man let out a small sigh and produced a case from his pocket. Inside was a small ink pot, a wooden stylus and several brass nibs, worth more than Walter would make in six months at sea. The man prepared his pen and paper, then folded his hands and stared at the old sailor. A long moment of silence passed between the them before the either spoke. "You are Walter Floren, yes?", the man said, in a mannered tone, "Son of Daron Floren, deceased. Two years ago you were the bosun of the Windward Roamer. Is this correct?" "Yes, milord." Walter said. A smile softened the young man's face. "I am no lord, Mr. Floren." he said, "You needn't address me as such during these…proceedings. I am merely a parliamentary page, sent here to collect information. So long as you are truthful in your accounts, you and I shall get along splendidly. Once I have the facts I was sent to collect, you will likely never hear from us again. Is that understood?" "Yes, milor-Yes, sir." "I suppose 'sir' is acceptable, given the circumstances. Now, Mr. Floren, do you know why we are here?" "No, sir, I'm afraid I do not." "Are you aware of a pirate who goes by the name William the Red?" Walter's head shot up and he met the eyes of the man sitting across from him. He saw only curiosity in those eyes, not fear. The page picked up his pen and tilted his head to one side. "Shall I repeat the question?" he asked. "No! No, sir. No, you don't have to repeat the question. It's just… it's bad luck to say his name." A smile reached the corners of the page's eyes. "Is that so?" he asked, as he began writing. Walter noticed the young man maintained eye contact as the pen scratched across the paper. "Please explain." "It's only that…" Walter paused and struggled for words which seemed to have suddenly become stuck. His eyes scanned the corners of the room and when he spoke, it was barely more than a whisper. "He's not… natural. The man you spoke of. He's not a man, or at least he's not any more. Maybe he once was, I don't know. They say he hears things, that those that speak of him are doomed to meet him. Over miles of open waters, his name calls out to him like a song and it's them that utter it are the next to die." The smile had fallen from the Page's face and the pen had stopped moving. "Mr. Floren, do you take me for a child?" he asked, setting his pen down. "No sir, I'm just telling you what I've been told." "I'm not sure how clear I can make this… I'm not interested in what you've been'' told''. I did not travel over a hundred miles to this worthless port so you can tell me what you've heard or what you think you know. If I wanted fairy stories I could throw a few coppers to the nearest beggar and save myself the trouble of listening to the lies of cowards." "They're not lies!" Walter shouted as he stood, knocking his chair to the floor. His hands clenched the sides of the table. The Page flinched, but did not drop his gaze. Walter's eyes flicked to the guard and noticed he had pulled away from the wall, his sword readied without a moment's hesitation. "Mr. Floren," the page said, "Sit down. I was sent to find you," the page jabbed a finger at Walter, "you, because the Navy is currently in the midst of a massive manhunt looking to bring William the Red to the gallows. Our best information tells us that you are the only person who has ever seen this man, and that is all he is, I assure you. A man." Walter sat down, his face flushing with shame and anger. Tears stung his eyes as he struggled to keep the breath in his throat from hitching. "I'm no coward, sir," he said. "You weren't there." "So it is true then? You did see him?" "Aye, it's true. It's true." "Excellent," the page said, picking up his stylus. "Then let us begin." Walter Floren stared across the table at the young man who barely contained a child's excitement in his eyes. He stared at the guard and could feel eyes burning back at him from behind the dark slits in the helm. Walter cursed himself and his rotten luck. The day he hoped would never come was here. He steadied his breath, stared at his hands, and told the story of the first time he had ever been truly afraid. *** The Windward Roamer was a modest craft, but able. She was sleek and fast, with a hull that could cut through the water like a knife. Fifty able bodied men served aboard the Roamer, and all served a captain who was fair and kind. I had served on a dozen ships in my life and when I first stepped onto the Roamer, I felt like I was coming home. I always thought that I wouldn't mind dying on this ship, with this crew, if it was my time. I never guessed how close I'd come. The Roamer wasn't much for cargo space and mostly carried dry goods, hardly a prize worth taking for a few tons of grain and a few casks of wine. Not like the merchant galleons that bobbed about like floating mountains, hulls bursting with silks, spices, and other luxuries. We had deck guns and a locker full of axes and swords. Every man aboard was willing to defend the Roamer with his life, but we were all convinced that we'd never have to. We were five days out of Marway when the storm hit. One moment, we were sailing under the bluest skies you could imagine and the suddenly there came the loudest clap of thunder I'd ever heard. My first thought was that the mainmast snapped, even though the ship had seen repairs in Marway. It was Jensen, in the crow's nest, who spotted the storm on the horizon. At first it was a good distance behind us, though right away I could tell something was wrong. The clouds were growing, spreading like a drop of ink in a glass of water. I'd never seen thunderheads do that before, I couldn't even figure out how they could. Within a few seconds the storm grew from a squall over the water into a true typhoon. The sky sickened to a grey-green that swelled and roiled. Sharp cracks of lightning flashed from within, followed by roars of thunder. The mate ordered full sails. It was a storm like none of us had ever seen, but we'd yet to meet the storm the Roamer ''couldn't outrace. We were wrong, of course. We may as well have been trying to outrun time. No matter how fast we went, no matter how full-bellied our sails stretched, no matter how swiftly our hull sliced through the waves, the storm was gaining on us. Half of the men scrambled below decks, to secure the cargo. Others rallied up the rigging to roll the sails. If we were going to be caught, we could at least spare the damage to the ship. We were about halfway through our preparations when Jensen's cry came from the nest again. "A ship!" he said. "There's a ship in the storm!" I thought the boy must be seeing things, so I pulled my spyglass from my belt and looked dead into the heart of that storm. What I saw knotted my guts and sent ice through my veins. Crashing through the front of the storm was a massive galleon. A ship with blood red sails. ''The Sanguine Sea. We'd all heard stories, mostly lies and tales too fearsome to be true. The Sanguine Sea ''was a notorious pirate vessel, known in ports from Aragard to Ursur. She was captained by a brutal man named William the Red. Some swore he went by Bloody Bill. Stories of his exploits had circulated for months, maybe even years. No one could quite remember when they'd first heard of him. In every port there was a man who knew a man who had seen him, or had spoken to someone who did. One thing that all the tales agreed on was this: when he took a Calanian vessel, he left no survivors. Until that day I had always thought of him as a myth, as most of us did. But when you face your own end at the hands of a myth, you can't simply refuse to believe it. None of us took time to gape, or curse our luck, or lament our situation. Not one of us asked, "Why me?" Instead, we worked and prepared ourselves. The wind howled around us, the rain itself seemed to be coming directly at us, blinding us as the front of the storm wrapped around our tiny ship. We bumped against one another, trying to keep the water from our eyes and the panic from our hearts. Rennel opened the locker, I remember that much, and began handing out axes and swords to the open hands that swarmed him. I moved to the aft, keeping an eye on the beast as she inched closer and closer in the storm. Jasper Parchet, the first mate, put a hand on my shoulder and I tried to give him a reassuring smile. To this day, I wonder if he could see the fear in my eyes. The lightning hit before the cannons. A great bolt arced from the sky, blowing apart our mainmast and igniting our sails. Jensen was still up in the crow's nest when it happened. I can only hope he never saw it coming. We struggled against the wind, shielding our faces and trying to discern the position of our enemy. With the spray and the wind we lost all sight of her, and for a moment, I allowed myself the hope that maybe we could escape her in the storm. Suddenly she was there, huge and towering beside us. A score of cannon-fire erupted from her hull, the grapeshot tearing across our deck, dropping at least a dozen men in a heartbeat. I could see, barely, that her decks were full of men, shouting and waving weapons and waiting to get close enough to board. One of our men mounted one of the deck guns and began firing. From my position on the aftercastle, I could see it was like throwing pebbles at a bear. I don't know if the crew of ''The Sanguine Sea ''could even hear the sound of our gun over the storm, but I could hear them laughing from above us. A long moment later, we were boarded. They came at us in waves, a dozen, a hundred, I'm not sure. The first wave swung across the breach, attaching mooring lines to our rails. As soon as those dogs stepped foot on the ''Roamer, ''Parchet and I rushed the deck, ready and willing to protect what was ours. The next wave threw down planking and a cluster rushed at us, screaming like madmen. We held our ground, I promise you that. I had never been in combat amidships, and between the rain and the darkness I lashed out, blindly. I took down at least one when my axe lodged in his skull. Unable to pry it out, I pulled the saber from his corpse. We were offered no quarter and we gave none, but there were too many and I knew we would be overrun. Soon I realized it was only me and a handful of men left, surrounded on all sides by men and women howling louder than the storm. I waited for the killing blow to come. And waited. And then he arrived. He walked across the planks like he was out for a stroll instead of crossing between two ships in the middle of a gale. Trotting at his side was an immense hound with dripping jowls and eyes that glowed like coals. The pirates of ''The Sanguine Sea parted as he approached us. William the Red must have been seven feet tall, at least, and nearly half as wide. Though I cannot remember the face under the hat he wore, I can still remember his dark red coat. In the stories, it was said he washed it in the blood of his captives to keep the color true. I remember when he spoke the winds around us actually quieted down. "Where is your Captain?" he asked. Before I knew what was happening, Parchet rushed at him, axe raised high. There was only a distance of about twelve feet between the two, but with infinite calm, William the Red pulled a pistol from his belt and fired a shot directly between Parchet's eyes. He then looked at the rest of us and said, "I will not ask again." There was a clattering of metal as the rest of our crew dropped their swords and axes to the ground. When I looked down at my own hands, I was surprised to find I had done the same. My eyes met William's, and to my shame I looked to the door of the captain's cabin. I saw William give an almost imperceptible nod in my direction before walking over to the door. I knew it would be barred, as I had not seen the captain since we first spotted the storm, but William merely kicked the door in. What happened between the two I will never know. There was a brief period of silence, then a short quarrel of raised voices, and then a stillness which seemed to last an eternity. Stunned, we watched as William withdrew from the cabin. My heart sank when I saw the captain's cutlass tucked into his belt. At that moment I knew our captain was dead and our lives were surely forfeit. He looked over his crew who, without a word, sheathed their weapons and boarded their vessel. William then passed his gaze over the rest of us. When I looked, I realized that only three of us remained. Three of the fifty souls that had lived only an hour before. A heavy silence had fallen across the ship, and when I looked up I once again met William's eyes. He was standing less than a foot away from me. "Your ship is damaged," he said. "Your crew is nearly gone. But as it stands, you have enough manpower to see yourself back to Selene or at least be picked up by a passing merchant ship. To those who ask, you will give them my name. I presume I do not have to tell you what it is. When you arrive in Selene, I want you to find a certain man. I assure you this will not be difficult. When you find this man, you are to give him the following message. You will not repeat this message to anyone but to whom it is directed. Are these instructions clear?" Terrified, I nodded my head. William the Red gave me the message and told me to repeat it to make sure I understood it. He then pulled a small knife from his belt and cut one of the buttons off of his coat. He used the tip of the knife to draw a bead of blood from his thumb which he pressed firmly onto the button. "Understand the message I gave you is the only reason you are still alive," he said. "If you should get to Selene and fail to deliver my message…" He held the button, smeared with his blood, up to my face, "I will know. If you share the message with anyone else, I will know. If you betray this trust in any way," he said, pressing the button into my hand, "I will know. And I will deliver onto you a torment so profound it will drive you mad long before it kills you." With that, he turned and left, his hound at his side. The Sanguine Sea ''pulled away from the ''Roamer ''and vanished into the storm. I and the remaining two men drifted for a few minutes before the clouds around us parted and we found ourselves alone for countless leagues in every direction. *** The page's paper was filled with neat lines of shorthand recounting Walter's tale. When the pen finally stopped moving the young man set it back down, rubbed the stiffness from his hand, and sat back in his chair. "Well," he said, "''That is quite a story." "It's not a lie, if that's what you mean." Walter mumbled. "Sir." "It is a bit fantastic, isn't it? A ship that controls the weather. A captain who practices, what, blood magic? A mysterious message to a mysterious stranger." "I gave you my story, sir. It's all true, every word." "I do believe you think ''it's true," the page said, standing, "Though I very much doubt the archivists at Parliament will see it the same way. Tell me, did you ever deliver the message 'William the Red' asked you to?" "Aye. I did." "And what was it?" Walter met the page's eyes and said, flatly, "I'm not allowed to say." The page's face broke into a wide grin. "Fascinating. The superstitions of sailors. You probably even have a button, don't you? Something you can show at the bar to prove you faced down the notorious William the Red." The page let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "A hundred miles for another ridiculous tale of the supernatural. Thank you for your time, Mr. Floren. You've succeeded in wasting mine." Walter Floren sat alone after they left, once again staring at his thick, scarred hands. He replayed the story over and over in his mind. It ''was fantastic, when he thought about it, like something out of a storybook. The notorious pirate captain. A secret message. A fearsome battle. All that was missing was an imprisoned maiden, and maybe a dragon. He had almost begun to believe it was a story, something he'd made up from bits and pieces of tales he'd heard from other sailors sitting around their cups. Something worth a couple of minutes of quiet while his voice filled a room and nothing more. Almost. Then he turned his hand over and stared, for the thousandth time, at the small gold button he held in his palm. The one with the faint tracing of dried blood still settled in its grooves. He stared, and knew that the story, his story, would always be true. Whether he wished it to be or not. *** Ten miles out of town, the road forks. To the east are all the roads that lead back to Selene and the Parliament. To the south lies nothing but scrub, stony cliffs, and the soft crash of the surf. Two miles down the road past the southern fork, an ornamented carriage is stopped as her passengers change positions. The man dressed as a guard shakes his rather shaggy hair which had been plastered under his closed half-helm. "That helmet smelled like ham," he says. "I don't want to know why." "It's second-hand armor," the man dressed as a page says, as he throws his jacket onto the driver's seat, "Do you know how difficult it is to find Parliamentary armor? We're damn lucky it even fit." The larger man nods in agreement. "Heard some new bits tonight. The coat being bathed in the blood of my enemies, I liked that one." "And that bit about the button? Sometimes I'm not sure where these people get it from." "Well…" "Oh, Will, you didn't," the man dressed as a page laughs. "You actually gave him a button? With blood and everything? To what end?" "Theatricality. A production works best when the props support it." "So… you really did give him a message then? For who, LaMarche?" "Of course. I tell you, I could've hugged him when he refused to repeat the message. Probably would have ruined our ruse, though." "You know what it means. It means it's working. Fear is a powerful thing. That man is afraid of you, even two years later, because of nothing more than a button." "And a storm. And forty seven dead men." "That's a fair point." "Come on, Caleb. I'd like to get home. I'm dead on my feet and I think I'm getting land sick." "Aye aye, Captain. Homeward bound."